


The Setting Sun Above It All

by queirdo



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: (The Roaches of Yesteryear), Animal Death, Body Horror, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx, Roach Has the Brain Cell (The Witcher), Sad Jaskier | Dandelion, Sickfic, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28376430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queirdo/pseuds/queirdo
Summary: This sort of thing would make and excellent ballad about unrequited love. It's really too bad that he can't stop coughing long enough to sing, and maybe just slightly worse that he may keel over before he could write it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 203





	1. Chapter 1

Once, when he was in university, a man some years his senior had fooled him into sleeping together by pretending to hack into his hand. Feigning guilt, as if he'd not seen Julian Alfred Pankratz rounding the corner, like he did every day at that time. He'd presented the younger man, just a second year student at the time, with a tiny brunnera flower. With the audacity and readiness of one who'd never felt the crushing realization of having actually regurgitated so much as a single petal. He'd not even bothered to put the bloom in his mouth; it lay in his hand as dry as it had been when he'd plucked it from it's stem that morning. And Julian had not even bothered to care. He's always been a romantic, a little touchstarved and a bit in love with every one he meets. How reassuring, to have his quick infatuation be returned with such fervor for the first time in his life.

Valdo told him that it was a brunnera because Julian's eyes were blue. That had sounded oh so lovely and personal. However, in the years since Valdo had bedded him several times over whilst bragging to his friends and colleagues and stealing Julian's work, _Jaskier_ has learned the language of flowers. And that Valdo is a common but admittedly cunning skank. Which would make for a half-decent bard if the pitiful excuse for a man would put the thought he uses to trick pretty naive young men into his bed, into his music.

It feels like a lifetime ago now. Now that _Julian_ is _Jaskier_. Now that he's 23 years old, and already better known than sad sac Valdo Marx will ever be. Now that he's sitting on hard-packed dirt next to a low camp fire, the esteemed White Wolf snoring away somewhere over Jaskier's shoulder.

Jaskier sits there, holding the petal he's just produced from his very own lips to the light of the fire. The moist little thing, not even the size of his fingernail, is curled in on itself and rips when he tries to unfurl it. But Jaskier can make out the yellow color. The rounded edge. The beginnings of a bouquet of buttercups, rooting inside him like the weeds they are, the weed _he_ is.

How _childish_ he must seem, indeed. How old might Geralt even be? For as much as he's asked such a question, he's never received a straight answer. Always a grunt or a growl, an "old enough" or "older than you". Sometimes accompanied with a quirk of the mouth that suggests the slightest bit of indulgence. Not unlike when a toddler hands you their toy, wanting you to play along. Jaskier is truly nothing but a petulant child to the witcher.

He honestly should have known that this would happen. Geralt was _physically_ attractive all the back in Posada. All mystery and musk, a little grimy in the sort of way that makes it easy to imagine getting fucked into the dirt under him. Now, he's let Jaskier tag along on his adventures, share his camps, sing his praises. No one being can just let him hang off their arm for five whole years, putting up with his chittering and composing and persistence, without him falling just ever so slightly and maybe completely in love with them. Like feeding a stray, Geralt has given Jaskier attention, little smiles, and something that feels like affection. Things far more valuable to Jaskier than food. For all Geralt has told him to go away, the witcher does always come back to the inn, back to their meeting spot after the Winters. It's something that warms Jaskier's entire being, waiting around a dining hall earning what coin he can, and suddenly seeing a white head of hair duck into the room. Someone who can leave in the dead of night and be gone forever by the time he wakes, who has all the reason in the world to do so, still sticking around to give Jaskier the opportunity to skip alongside him.

Like a child. Like someone Geralt feels obligated to.

Jaskier tosses the petal in the coals.

The next petal comes when he's thankfully away from it's cause. Geralt has gone to slay an alghoul that's hiding out in this town's cemetery.

Jaskier did attempt to trudge into the depths with the witcher. He often does, especially when Geralt insistently tells him he shouldn't. Fools himself by keeping some distance, all the while aware he's a mere kitten pretending to sneak up on a puma. Geralt always knows where he's hiding, glares over at the rock or bush Jaskier has blockaded himself with once or twice. Picks him up on the way out, chides him about dangers and how Jaskier is a squishy human who can't handle the screech of a banshee, swipe of a griffin.

Geralt put up no protest this time, perhaps not concerned, perhaps not wanting to waste energy arguing a battle he'd usually lose anyway. He'd just told Jaskier "Not a step into the graveyard, and cover your ears."

But not far into the trek through the wood, Jaskier's throat starts to tingle. It builds to be a burn, and he has to stop and take deep breaths for a moment before he is able to call out that he's going to head back to their room at the inn nearby.

He wheels around and jogs off back towards town before he can see Geralt halt Roach turn his top half Jaskier's way, confused.

 _Jask always follows. Maybe he doesn't think such a simple beast would make a good ballad?_ Geralt can't stop long to think about it, though, he's busy _._ He takes off again, trusting the bard to find his way.

Jaskier does, just barely. He coughs and wheezes all the way, finally stumbling back out onto the street like a drunkard after a place to vomit up their last meal. He shelters down the nearest alleyway before he can't hold it in anymore. There, between two brick walls, he barks up another soft yellow petal.

Turning the thing over between his fingertips, it's no more cooperative than the last one.

What a romantic notion. A bard so enamoured with his subject that he's singing through the literal blooms of his love.

It's a complete crock of shit that Valdo thought of it first.


	2. Chapter 2

People have noticed his voice changing. It's a strange problem that Jaskier the _traveling_ bard never thought he'd have.

Nothing has ever stopped Jaskier from music. He'd strummed his lute with splinted fingers, tapped his melodies on tables before he had a lute at all, smiled with a split lip and bruised cheek, roaring lyrics back at the crowd he'd brawled in. Naturally, the cultivating buttercup garden hadn't stopped him yet, either.

 _He_ knew he sounded different, with nearly a year's worth of roots in him, but he didn't think anyone else did. Not even Geralt, he of heightened senses, had said anything. Or maybe he liked that Jaskier was not talking quite as much, and didn't want to look that gift horse in the mouth.

They're looping back through Verden, Jaskier trotting along behind Geralt like the loyal puppy dog he was. A storm has cast over their journey for days now. They're both soaked to the bone and miserable, and Geralt did not take much convincing when they came upon a small town.

The two had little coin to speak for, the witcher having been stiffed on his last job. So Geralt had taken shelter with Roach in the stable, for now, while Jaskier went in search of raucous laughter and lighted windows to whore his voice for.

He finds those things at a pub, and is surprisingly well-received. Welcomed "back", though he secretly can't recall this particular watering hole. It feels as if he's been all over the continent with Geralt.

If he'd thought the fits were bad back when they started, they're perfectly wretched now. It had happened gradually, though, and he's gotten better at swallowing down the leafy bubbles in his throat. It hurts, _Melitele,_ it hurts. The leaves are peppery, but oddly sharp in flavour, and the taste does not mesh very well with the copper of his blood. He can feel the bulk of them, so small in his hand but massive in his throat, as they come up only to be forced back down. But he can't just stop singing about the White Wolf. He has a reputation to turn around, favor to win. Even if he tries to take a night's break, it seems some kindly soul always bops by to request Toss A Coin To Your Witcher. The memories sting almost as much as the pull on his lungs.

He's on his way to the powder room to hack it all back up after his hours-long performance when someone slaps his back hard as he walks, expediting the process. The man, clearly drunk, doesn't notice the plague-like retching that has the observers behind him recoiling from the bard.

Instead, he's saying, "Guess your balls finally dropped, aye?" Sipping his ale and looking over his shoulder for validation, but seemingly unbothered by the concerned and horrified expressions his friends wear. Chuckling into his stein, he adds with slurred words, "Last time you werr-ere, ya sounded like a little bird."

All that Jaskier, who probably has more hair on his left nipple than this man ever had on his head, could do was try not to collapse on the floor and let the episode run it's course.

When it ends, some of the hard expressions around him soften. When it ends, blood seeps into the space between Jaskier's ring and his skin. It ends, and the expected few petals accompanied by a fully formed yellow bud, stained with red, lay in his palm. As soggy as he, with shreds of a leaf tangled in it.

Finally, he can speak, but he looks up to the small gathering of people. They feel closer than before, and he suddenly feels like a cornered animal.

"Sorry, I must be on my way," he babbles awkwardly, weakly hitching his lute case onto his back, from where it was comfortably pinned under his arm. Because he _had_ intended to come back after his bathroom break. "I just remembered that I left my, uh, cockatiel in...the...oven. Bye now," Jaskier rasps, then ducks out the door.

Stealing himself for the mercilessly cold rain for a moment, he leaps out into it without hearing the swing of the entrance.

He's taking quick strides towards the stable, discarding the petals out of his hand, when the person who had followed him calls out.

"It's the flowers that do it," A feminine voice calls, and he turns to see the blurry vision of a thin woman through the miserable grey. "Making your voice change. I've seen it," she all but yells, and Jaskier panics. The pub was not terribly far from the stable to begin with. And in his experience, if _he_ can hear something, Geralt can.

The thought of it, of Geralt sitting in the stall he'd rented. Quietly talking to his horse like the sweet, lonely man he is, hearing that...Jaskier can picture the warm, far-away lantern light on his furrowed brow and slight pout that he insists isn't one.

Jaskier begins to cough again, torn between running away from the woman and dragging her back into the pub, away from prying ears. But he doesn't want to go back to where he's just taken an inelegant exit. And if he continues on to the stable, she might follow, or Geralt might guess, and then his stupid affections would be known to the witcher.

The woman ends up making the choice for him, marching up and grabbing his wrist away from him. She leads him into a nearby doorway, everything feeling too loud and too painful and wholly fuzzy until the door suddenly opens, and he's pulled inside.

The woman sniffles, lighting a lantern somewhere and illuminating what is clearly a room used for practicing medicine.

She sits him on a bench by the door. Produces a blanket from somewhere to drape over him, and begins pounding his back with her palm, even as she herself shudders. After what feels like a lifetime he gags up a clump of yellow and mucus.

"It's-"

"I know what it is," Jaskier whimpers, before the woman can start in at all. He feels disgusting, a snotty, watery eyed, all-around wet mess. "Who are you, the town healer?" He asks, patting himself down with his unsullied hand for the handkerchief he'd started carrying months ago.

"Midwife," she says, and when he scoffs a little and mouths the word to himself, indignantly adds, "Not a few like you have left a girl behind with more than rose seed, bard."

Jaskier looks at her, embarrassed, offering a tired grin.

The midwife sighs. "I know how to get rid of it. Done it more than once, might be more than the next healer could say." She tells him, hand still resting on his back.

He looks away. At his knees. At the handkerchief he'd wiped his palm on. The petals crushed with the friction, mixed with the clear-green goop, streaked with his blood.

The idea _had_ crossed his mind, but not as a viable option. He'd heard tale of having the roots torn out, of potions like pesticide. But it seemed so farfetched, he can't imagine. Never be able to love again? Love is all Jaskier does. Could he be himself without it? Could he write without it? And how could anyone who loves someone as much as Jaskier loves Geralt...get rid of it?

"People actually go through with that?" He asks quietly.

The hand on his back starts to rub comforting circles, and the midwife nods. "It's better than dying, isn't it?" She answers gently.

Jaskier thinks of Geralt, waiting for him in the stable.

"How long has it been, bard?" _How near are you to that fate?_ She means.

He thinks of Geralt kissing the top of Roach's head. His witcher brushing out the horse's mane with his fingers. Smiling, despite being drenched and frustrated and having spent the little cushion he had in his purse to put a roof over her, when she nuzzled the side of his face.

"Long enough," he replies.

Geralt didn't come with him to the pub. He doesn't say so, but he doesn't like to scare people. He doesn't like to hurt Jaskier's chances of success if he can help it.

The midwife is looking empathetically at him when he glances up, and though he's watching her talk, he's not hearing what she's saying. "I can't do it until my girls deliver their babe, if they choose to. Gets bad at the end. Whole flowers, voice gets all wrecked -"

Geralt had sat down in the corner to meditate while Jaskier was straightening himself out, as much as was possible, before going looking for the pub. Smoothing his hair a little, pulling his dublet down where it had been rucked up from walking. When Jaskier had opened the stall door, Geralt had opened his eyes. " _Be careful, Jask_ ,"

She's still going on, about thorny rose stems and poisonous foxgloves, but stops when Jaskier starts retching again.

His chest feels hollow, but simultaneously too full. It hurts. He doesn't know how long it lasts - not this fit, not the disease. All he knows of it are fairy tales with happy endings, rumors with bad ones. But he can still sing. As long as he can love, he's still himself.

Jaskier spits out another bud, fuller than the first. And finds himself smiling at it, tears running down his face from the strain.

"I think I'd rather just die, thanks,"


	3. Chapter 3

"Making you feel any better?" Jaskier's latest bed partner purrs, to his confusion. She's a Marchioness, or something. Awfully forward, older than he, a little bit mean to the wait staff at the banquet. But all that had really mattered was that she wasn't afraid of his bark. Another development Jaskier had also never expected, because why _would_ the stories of disease include what it was like to try and fuck someone else? Not very poetic, nor the best for a character's reputation, if they're spitting flowers and still playing harlot.

But Geralt doesn't want him, and Jaskier can't live without _some_ reciprocation. Even before all this, he yearned to love and be loved. As it turns out, though, that's quite a lot to ask for, and he's long since settled for brief skin-on-skin encounters to quell that hunger.

She's heavy on top of him, despite not being near to the most plump he's ever brought to bed.

He feels every harsh movement in his lungs. The aggressive rock of hips and sway of bare breasts are suddenly far less erotic than he remembers them feeling. But he can't quite conjur the breath and strength to switch their positions, either.

So he lies there, possibly being the laziest lover he's ever been, on the cusp of regretting the choices he'd made earlier that evening in the banquet hall. Which of course, lead to _this._

_This_ being the absolutely undoubtable regret that hits him as hard as the Marchioness' palms when she braces herself on his chest. Pressing the weight of her entire upper body against him. Something he could handle, appreciate, before the buttercups. But now it's knocking the wind out of him.

"Please-" he starts to say, and at that choice moment, she tosses her hair back. The moving pressure cuts him off, has him gasping for air.

She's got her eyes closed more often than not, only fluttering open here and there. He can't necessarily _blame_ her for not noticing that he's sort-of choking to death. Breathy gasps and wandering hands are certainly in his regular repertoire. Though they're not usually the only desperate noises he makes, and his hands generally paw at ass rather than wrists.

His vision of her curvature is going a little bit fuzzy when the weight relents. The Marchioness arches her whole body back, his thighs becoming the foundation for her supports.

They're both breathing hard, for entirely different reasons. Jaskier gasps like a drowning man dragged to the surface. She recovers long before him, sitting up straight and uttering, "Fuck, you're blue!"

The next few minutes are, a bit insultingly, a blur of the Marchioness pulling on her clothes as if she's going to run for it while Jaskier lays nude on a badly stuffed mattress left to his own devices.

Eventually he gathers the dexterity to pull himself into a sitting position against the headboard. Calmed by the gradual lessening of the idea that she'd accidentally fucked a man to death, the Marchioness shoves a cup of water to his lips.

Jaskier drinks in sparse gulps, blearily blinking his eyes when he cup is withdrawn. She now sits on the side of the bed, haphazardly dressed with panicked eyes.

"I'd heard you had the sickness, but I didn't actually believe it," She's rambling, "I didn't know it was so...I always heard it was pretty flowers and husky voices, I never thought-"

"Wait," Jaskier croaks, wheezing like a bellows. "You'd heard I have it?"

She stops talking, stares at him a moment. He can't quite discern her expression, somewhere between worry and disbelief. "I won't tell her, dear." she finally tells him.

That's...not the answer he'd wanted. But he doesn't have it in him to ask for more, his head wiping the slate of his thoughts clean so that his anxiety could take the stand. Weaving maps of _How long have people suspected?, Who saw him?, Has anyone told Geralt?_

The Marchioness finishes dressing herself, the mood decidedly gone bad. She has the decency to ask if he's alright before she flees, at least.

When the witcher returns from his fledger contract, they depart the city. On the first night of their coddiwomple journey, Jaskier casually asks if Geralt has heard any rumors about him.

He'd already asked around in the two days it had been since the banquet. Many were too embarrassed to tell a man to his face what they'd been saying about him. But from what he'd managed to piece together: an opportunistic merchant from a seaside town had sold a brightly dressed bard a handkerchief not three months ago, having watched him go into a fit right before her eyes. Depending on who told the story, he'd either expelled a single sunny petal or an entire bouquet of flowers. Some say jonquils, others primroses, one had specifically named carnations. At any rate, the merchant had seen him. And then an innkeeper told of finding flowers in the washbasin after a bard of similar description had left, followed by someone who actually knew his name bearing witness to his coughing.

He remembers purchasing the handkerchief. It wasn't even very pretty, just a linen square with and unfinished scalloped edge. He'd been left to wander the town whilst Geralt spoke to their alderman. In search of provisions, and perhaps the rare luxury. Jaskier had bought a bar of oatmeal soap for his witcher. Rarely ever did he actually smell like it, man of onion and destiny, but Jaskier had been there for multiple occasions when Geralt _had._ Memories had a way of making his hack up his guts.

He almost wants to laugh at himself, for thinking then that the oatmeal soap episode was as painful as it could possibly get. Every attack he thinks as much, and by the next, proves himself a fool.

"If I believed every rumor I heard about you, I'd think you the father of two dozen children." Geralt says, removing Roach's tack to make camp. His tone doesn't hint anything knowing or dangerous.

Jaskier sighs dramatically, but not without relief. "That's not what I asked, but alright."

His witcher turns on him with an annoyed glare that somehow turns harder, his dark brows creasing. "What the hell happened to your eye?" He asks, frowning. Before Jaskier can process that though, Geralt goes on. "I know you're sick, bard."

And Jaskier _knows_ that Geralt can feel his heartbeat running away from him.

All the mild heart attack gets him is a _hmmm_ and a wet coughing fit.

He's never done it in front of a conscious Geralt before. Jaskier has always retreated to tents and woods and rivers, restrooms and hallways. It's been over a year and now he fails to hide it? His mind races, and his heart leaps when the witcher even _reaches out_ to pat his back. Somehow making it worse. Jaskier feels the bloom, because that's what they've been recently. Full flowers that open to about the size of his signet. Sometimes bigger. Sometimes with stem. They take a prolonged hack to bring up.

Jaskier clamps his hand over his mouth. His eyes might water, he may appear a sobbing mess, but he will _not_ allow Geralt to see his stupid buttercups. He swallows it back down. His mouth tastes of blood and bile.

"I've gotten paid," Geralt is saying, uncharacteristically soft. "Next town, we get you to the healer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ft. Jaskier fucking a total Karen


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt wants him to get rid of them.

Of course he does, how foolish would Jaskier have to be to think that there was any other way? There's some comfort, at least, in knowing his witcher wanted him _fixed_ rather than banished from his side _._ But what would that even mean? Jaskier would surely be an entirely different person afterward. Would Geralt still like him if he wasn't completely infatuated? Would Jaskier still like Geralt? Can they put up with one another if not for it?

Will the expelling of the roots mean the parting of them as a pair?

"Anyone with working eyes can see you're sick." The witcher had stated, and went on to list off symptoms Jaskier never even paid much mind to. It's hard to focus on anything less urgent than a mouthful of blood at the moment. Weight loss that Geralt 'can see in his face'. Decrease in appetite. Lethargy. Apparently he's got a blood blotch in his left eye. _From strain,_ the witcher had said, simple as that, just a fact of life.

He wasn't even acknowledging the particular illness, letting the rejection hang in the air like a coward.

A coward that Jaskier loves with all his ridiculous, childish heart.

Geralt wakes once again to a loud retch, the bard scrambling on limbs that weren't always so thin to get himself away from their camp.

It's thoughtful of Jaskier to not want him to get sick, and Geralt thinks to explain that he won't catch a human's stomach bug. Not even one this bad. But part of it is surely pride, so Geralt lets him leave.

He's grown very bad at estimating lengths of time. He's not stupid, he knows an hour from a day. But he's been on the path for a considerable amount of years now. And every day he spends with Jaskier already feels too fast. The time they've known one another does not seem like enough at all. So he's not exactly sure how long his bard has been sick. He'd noticed before leaving for the fledger, how Jaskier creeps away from him in the night. That he's not quite been himself. But how long ago had Jaskier developed this? How long has Geralt has allowed him to be in pain? He could think himself in circles about it. Which only causes him to lose more time.

An undetermined amount of minutes later, ouroboros off and winding in Geralt's head, Jaskier slinks back into camp. He sniffles, his breaths heaving. He smells of sweat and blood.

Geralt isn't sure when he started hating, or even being able to differentiate, the smell of Jaskier's blood.

Come morning, Jaskier is on his act again, pretending everything is fine. He smiles and jokes but now the grimace is clear, as is the wheeze to his words. The blotch looks worse, and blood pools in bags under those blue eyes.

They might both be surprised when Geralt finds himself nudging the bard toward Roach.

Feelings have this odd way of creeping up on Geralt. He will do things for years, over and over again. Routines feel safe, and when he breaks them, something bad always happens.

And so it does, again, when Jaskier's mouth goes slack. "You want me to touch Roach?" His bard - wait, when exactly did Geralt start thinking of the bard as _his_? - says softly. Raspy, as if it's all he can manage.

"You're sick." Geralt clips. His loss for words always has him sounding brute. "Won't make you walk."

Jaskier reaches out and lays a hand on the mare. Softly, like she's precious.

Quickly, the both of them are turning away. Jaskier with his terrible cough and Geralt fussing about rucksacks as an excuse to not show the color in his face.

His, _the_ , but _his_ somehow sounds so much better, bard trots off into the wood. Geralt busies himself with packing the man's things.

Jaskier isn't sure how he's going to get all the way to Ellander without falling dead. Not with the way Geralt is talking to him, all gentle and considerate. Sure, he doesn't have to walk. But he does get a leg up from the witcher, his entire weight easily hoisted up and onto the man's most prised possession. Because Geralt is letting him ride Roach. It feels overwhelmingly monumental.

Doesn't he know what this is doing to him? There's no way that Geralt is being so intentionally cruel. Perhaps he thinks he's being helpful. But all this really is, Jaskier must remind himself again and again, is seeing what _could_ be. What he might've had, if things were different. If he weren't so young and annoying and useless. All the things that will get this ripped out from under him, like the roots in his lungs.

What if he says no? What if he can't do it?

What if he gets left behind to die alone if he won't go through with it?

Geralt walks beside them, loosely holding Roach's reins. They travel largely in silence, but for Jaskier's occasional coughing. They stop to eat around midday. The witcher eats, at least, whilst Jaskier yawns and rolls a pinch of bread between his fingers. It does not go unnoticed, Geralt glaring up at him with stern amber eyes through dark, pretty lashes. It's not fair. None of this is fair. Not the straight line of Geralt's nose, not his his half-tied hair with strands that stubbornly refuse to not frame his face. Not his concern for such an undeserving child. Not that Jaskier isn't allowed to love him.

While Jaskier cleans up the patch of grass they'd picnicked in, Geralt removes the large leather saddle from his mare's back, leaving just the embroidered pad.

"Sleep." He orders when he pushes Jaskier back up. "Won't let you fall."

Geralt coaxes Jaskier to sprawl his top half over Roach's shoulders. He initially settles with his face away from where Geralt walks to their left side. Despite some minor pushback, it's not long before Jask's breathing slows. He snores in soft little snorts. They used to be louder.

Geralt has to keep heaving the saddle back up, heavy on his forearm. Something warm and deep in his chest says that it's worth it, though.

They might only have to stop for one more night before reaching Ellander. And the bard needs rest. Makes sense.

Jaskier slides around a fair amount, even without the saddle. Geralt keeps having to dart his hand out and pull him back, by his shirt or arm. But eventually relents, passing the reins to his left hand and planting his right firmly on Jaskier's lower back.

It's an awkward way to walk. Made slightly, needlessly more so when Jaskier hums in his sleep, unconsciously turning his head to the other side of Roach's mane. His cheek smushes against her neck. He looks his age. Not so tired. More like himself.

For whatever reason, Geralt's face burns, pins and needles. Perhaps he can get sick, after all.


	5. Chapter 5

The bard has taken a turn for the worse, it seems, when he wakes.

He slept half the day away, and Geralt remembers that being a _good_ thing for sick humans to do. So when he stops to make camp, he leaves Jaskier on Roach's back for a while. Glances over at his shoulder, many times, somehow disturbed by the silence.

He's been on his own far more times than he's been with Jaskier. But out of nowhere, starting a fire by himself feels...lonely. Foraging through the lush summer woods without a string of comments at his back suddenly too quiet. Setting up the tent without the strum of a lute, turning to see not a fond smile, but an unconscious man dripping with persperation even as the temperatures begin to drop just isn't quite right.

It's as though Geralt's stomach is eating itself. He feels an aching pit growing there. It reminds him of Renfri. And he does not like that.

He _will_ save Jaskier. Maybe this is not quite as dramatic as destiny, herself. But he won't lose another...another what? What was Renfri to him? What is Jaskier? When did those two points between them connect in his head?

He chooses to push aside this internal debate and instead focus on getting Jaskier back in good health. For a while, all that can mean is having everything ready when his bard rouses. Geralt gathers up blowball for potions, cattail for wounds, sage and feverfew with feeble hopes at a tea. Wild parsnips that make it into the stew, save a few coins of the root that he slips to Roach for being a good girl.

It's when she wanders over to nudge at him for another treat that it becomes clear that Jaskier is very, very unwell.

He'd started sliding as she walked, and Geralt barely manages to catch him when his mare knocks against his armor.

Jaskier smells like sweat and bile. His hair sticks to his forehead, the inside of his lips are too red. Geralt had reached out and taken hold of the first bit of Jaskier he made contact with, which leaves him holding the man by his haunch when his eyes flutter open. Relief surges through the witcher, but only for a moment. Because Jask looks confused. Confused and still tired and weak and smaller than he should.

Jaskier opens his mouth, as if to speak, but no sound but wheezing breath comes out. And then he starts to gag on his wretched cough again.

Geralt drags him down and props him up so that he's sitting up against their packs.

He just retches, for what seems like hours. But keeps swallowing down whatever it is his body is clearly trying to get rid of. Geralt tries to pull Jaskier's hands away from his face. Whenever he manages to, he can see the blood that seeps from the corners of Jaskier's mouth.

He refuses to take water. He refuses to take food. He refuses to take the advice Geralt gives him to just go ahead and vomit. He cries and his whole body shakes.

When he's exhausted all options that allow him to stay with Jaskier, Geralt goes to dunk a handkerchief in the cool fresh water of the river. He fished it out from the bard's own pocket. The thing is stained with old, old blood, which might as well be proof of Geralt's negligence.

_Finally,_ the witcher leaves. From the moment Jaskier awoke, all he needed to do was spit. It certainly didn't help to wake up halfway in Geralt's arms, large hand gripping very near his ass. Nor did it help that he was just being so _kind_ and _patient_.

It is a terrifying thing, to not be able to speak. He cannot tell Geralt to leave him alone, he can only swat away his attempts to help and shake his head. Geralt pries away the only cover he has, his hands, over and over, and there's really no fighting the witcher once he's got hold of something. So Jaskier is left unable to try again, having to clamp his jaw shut painfully hard.

When Geralt finally walks away, Jaskier counts the steps until he's almost sure he can get rid of everything before the other gets back. He brings himself up on all fours and lets the flowers out.

They come, bent and bloodied. Whole stems, more than one offshoot to some. There are so many long, thin leaves. Like little knives, like paper cutting the inside of his throat. Jaskier shakily shoves them into the fire as they appear. He hurries as much as possible when he hears the pound of heavy footsteps somewhere beyond he ringing in his ears.

He's ready to collapse again when Geralt returns and slaps a cold wet cloth to his forehead. Jaskier has no choice but to be manhandled back into his seat. To try and accept the water Geralt pushes on him. Most of it ends up dribbling down his chin. His collar becomes damp and uncomfortable.

Geralt asks him if he thinks he can make the ride into Ellander, tonight. Jaskier knows he cannot, and shakes his head.

Geralt offers, with what almost seems like hesitation, to go ahead on his own and bring the healer back to him.

Perhaps it's selfish. Maybe unfair to the witcher, who never asked to have a little boy's affections. But Jaskier desperately does not want to die alone. Even if Geralt hates him for all the time he's costing, annoying him with his ails. He can stand the pity, the frustration, if it means that Geralt might stay. So that Jaskier might pretend that his friend's practicality and good morals are returned feelings.

The tremor does not go away. Geralt wraps Jaskier in both of their bedrolls, by the fire.

It was not uncommon for them to sleep together, sharing body heat, on nights that called for it. But Jask keeps shaking his head. Gods, he must be humiliated. To break down, be left to develop such a terrible illness, in front of and because of a careless monster.

It's all Geralt can do, because while he could race to Ellander now, he doesn't actually wish to leave his bard alone, to sit and stoke the fire. Try to remember how to make feverfew tea and try to coax it into Jaskier's mouth. They both sit awake, in unsettling hush. The only noise the crackling fire.

Geralt stares into it, contemplating his many failures. Fissures in his composure and confidence like those in the splitting, burning wood.

He can't be sure how much time has gone by when a small yellow flower catches his eye, lying beside the pit he'd dug out.

The uneven round edge and orange stigma are hard to mistake. But he'd not seen tarragon growing in the wood.


	6. Chapter 6

The sun rises on Geralt still awake and contemplating the tarragon flower. He twirls it between his index finger and thumb.

Has Jaskier already seen a healer, who has recommended it for treatment? To help with the nausea, lack of appetite, his complexion. The bard is certainly capable of earning his own coin, under usual circumstances. They aren't always together, after all.

Was this all they could do for him? Is this bloom the last of his stores, and is that perhaps why it's gotten worse?

Once Jaskier had drifted back off, Geralt spent some time combing the forest carpet for the herb. But there were none to be found.

He wanders the campsite, restless and useless. Packs up anything they don't need, so they can be off as soon as Jaskier opens his eyes. Cleans the stewpot, refills their water. Freshens the wet handkerchief laid on his bard's forehead. Runs out of things to do, and settles across from Jaskier, which is where he is now. Staring at the drying petals.

He should grind it with the feverfew for tea. But he doesn't. He just stares at it. Small and wilted, freckled with blood.

The morning warms Geralt's back, and casts light over Jaskier's face. The witcher finds himself creeping around the dying fire to crouch beside his bard.

The impulse is sudden and alien, but he hesitantly places the back of his hand against Jaskier's cheek.

Of course, he's touched the man before. Jaskier has a habit of following him on contracts, and of getting in brawls, and of sleeping with nobles whose spouses occasionally chase him off like sea bird. Geralt has grabbed him by the arm and dragged him, has doctored his knuckles, has caught him on the odd defenestration.

But none of those touches had been particularly tender. None of them felt important.

Geralt can remember his mother touching his own face like this. He remembers feeling loved, once.

Jaskier deserves better than him. Maybe he should leave him in Ellander, once he heals. Or escort him to the coast he talks about in his slumber. To make a real life. One where he's not sleeping in the dirt, catching sick. One where someone good can love him and give him something worthwhile.

He turns his hand to cup Jaskier's face, and the bard hums into the hold. His skin is hot. Geralt swipes with his thumb at the dried tears.

Jaskier's eyes open, slowly. It's like a shock, but for whatever reason, instinct does not tell Geralt to pull his hand away.

"Let's get you to Ellander," He hears himself say, calmer than he is.

The morning is quiet. If Jaskier ignores the taste of copper, he can pretend it's domestic bliss. Just for a moment.

Geralt brews him another cup of awful tea. Jaskier does his best to take little sips from the metal cup. But mostly holds it for the heat. He watches Geralt bustle around, lets him pull the bedrolls out from under him. The witcher bridles his horse, and Jaskier already knows he's riding Roach again.

There's an awkward exchange of half hand gestures and half confused grunts, when Jaskier excuses himself to trek to the water.

He'd known it was coming, the cutoff of his voice. He'd read and listened, trying to prepare for it. Maybe it worked, maybe he's just made peace with his impending death for the time being. At any rate, he doesn't hate the strange serenity that has seemed to settled over them. Jaskier wishes he could keep it.

The flowers feel like they tear at his throat now. It can't be long yet. Geralt said the town is a few hour's ride. He's not sure he wants to make it.

Jaskier flushes the blood from his mouth with handfuls of river water. The current settles, his buttercups flowing away, and he looks at himself.

He's a complete mess. His left eye is something out of a horror story. His dirty hair sticks up in tufts. Jaskier dumps another handful over water over his head, to smooth it down. Shakily unbuttons his doublet, because it's gross, grimy and wet. His chemise had faired better, but not by much, so he strips it off. He needs to pick himself up and go back before his clothing satchel is lost to Geralt's tendency to consolidate.

Instead, he brings a hand to his hollow cheek. The one he'd woke up to Geralt caressing.

Why?

Does he really not care about how hard this is going to be?

The man himself comes to collect him, soon after. Sadly, it brings their tranquil morning crashing down.

Jaskier has been shirtless before the witcher more times than he can count, but Geralt turns his back, babbling about privacy like a sweet fool. It makes him feel vulnerable, when he shouldn't. All the same, he throws his undershirt back on.

He struggles to get back up out of the squat he'd taken, so Geralt must grab his underarm and pull him. It feels like a pallet of bricks on his chest when the witcher doesn't let go. Another ton drops when he speaks.

"Where did you find tarragon?" Geralt asks as they walk back. Jaskier makes a unsure noise, and the white wolf produces one of Jaskier's buttercups.

Hastily, Geralt is no longer concerned with the sunny flower, instead trying to calm Jaskier's hard-beating heart. In _that_ tone; that gentle, caring tone, which does not improve the situation at hand in the least. It hurts more than it helps.

"I'm not upset," Geralt is saying. They break into the clearing, and he plunks Jaskier down on a rock. "It's not important. It's okay." He soothes, crouching in front of him. Petting his bicep, patting his back when the coughs bubble up. "Forget it," Geralt tells him softly, taking his hand and rubbing circles on his knuckles with his calloused thumb.

The day grows hotter around them. It's not just, that way time stops with Geralt. _Forget it._ As if he could.

He spits blood and bile into his sullied doublet, even sneaking a few stems that he quickly tucks into the folds. Shoves it deep, to the very bottom of his bag when Geralt retrieves it for him.

When he's recovered enough for travel, the witcher once again places him up on Roach. Jaskier pets her coarse mane, loosely braiding it to pass the time.

Their journey is quiet, but Geralt does take notice. He tucks Jaskier's buttercup in the plait. 

Or - wait, what had Geralt called it?


	7. Chapter 7

There's a whole lot about this disease that everyone skips over. It makes sense. The stories of people who cave do so early. The stories of people who die, well, aren't told by the person who had it. Yes, it looks awful. One can infer. But there were no first hand accounts of the infliction over a year through that he'd been made aware of.

Jaskier is very, very sweaty. Feverish, his skin hot to the touch when he feels cold to his bones. He's so thirsty, but it hurts to drink. He no longer feels hungry, it doesn't matter anymore that he's not eaten for three days. His arms and legs feel heavy, aching. He is incredibly tired, despite having woken up not too long ago. Yet his major discomfort is now making it hard to sleep.

The horn of the saddle makes it awkward to lay as he had before, but he can't ask Geralt to carry it again. So it digs into the side of Jaskier's belly, and he swats the witcher's hand away. Roach's coat feels hot and matted under his face.

This is the second Roach he's known. The first seemed indifferent to him, if a bit irritable. She swished her tail almost every time he played his lute. This one is friendlier. She nudges his shoulder, if they're left together while Geralt is gone. She likes having her nose scratched, and munching on swede greens. Maybe she'll remember him. Maybe she'll wonder where he went after he's gone.

The last Roach died at Kaer Morhen. Geralt had been distracted and sad that spring, when Jaskier had found him and this new Roach. He says he doesn't dwell on the past, but when they drank that night, Geralt had poured out stories of all the Roaches before. The one that was a gelding, the one with the tall white socks, the one that liked to chew his hair. The ones who died of old age, the ones he killed quickly himself to spare them from long or painful deaths, by a creature's poison or their claws. Roaches have always been his travel partner. Geralt remembers and misses them.

Perhaps he'll drink and tell stories of an annoying little bard, one day, too.

 _That_ is another problem. Jaskier's thoughts keep getting away from him. His head feels full and fuzzy. Any cognizant structure he thinks of is starting to get lost in a maze, branching off and stealing his time.

Even the world around him is going foggy. His eyes won't focus on anything, he's only vaguely aware of a far-away light. He's not really sure which direction they're going. He doesn't even notice Geralt's growing concern until the witcher makes physical contact with him.

Geralt grabs a handful of the back of his chemise and pulls him up.

"Move," He's growling, manhandling Jaskier to sit up and back to make room for him. He wraps one of Jaskier's hands around one of his belts. "Do not let go."

There is no time for a foglet. Geralt refuses to get sucked into this, not with Jaskier here. Not so close to getting him help. They may be a simple minded monster, but damn if they're not deadly.

Roach won't be happy to carry the both of them, but there is _no time._ He drags his bard, glassy eyed and staring off into nothing, to sitting upright. To hold onto his armor as they take off.

He can hear the wheezing and pained groans from Jaskier behind him. The alternative would be worse, and Geralt will tell him that, as soon as they're out of danger. Hearing it, though, makes him uneasy. In a way the foglet doesn't, not necessarily.

He knows how to stay composed around a beast. He's faced more than one of these annoying bastards. He _doesn't_ know what to do with the way Jaskier's helpless noises sting. They pull at his heart like they're inside, taking cords of muscle and tugging.

As it turns out, the foglet is uncomfortably close to the township. They aren't far out of it, cresting a hill, and then he can see their walls.

"We should keep going," He chirps over his shoulder at his bard.

Jaskier is right there, face not six inches from his. Pale and shivering. He blinks at Geralt with wet eyes, the awful red blotch consuming almost all of his left iris. He starts to cough in barks again, without opening his mouth.

That's as much answer as Geralt needs.

Jaskier can feel every pound of hoof on dirt. Galloping as if racing to the finish line. He supposes Geralt is. The sooner Jaskier is dead, the sooner he can move on. This chapter of his long life all wrapped up. He probably still thinks Jaskier will have them removed. Surely, he'll be done for good when he realizes the decision he's made.

He'd rather die with love, even if it is excruciating and unrequited, than live without it.

In vain, Jaskier tries his best to just die as the walls draw closer. He's certainly in enough pain for it. Destiny is an unforgiving mistress, however. He won't be allowed to die holding onto Geralt, as surface level as the touch may be.

That thought might spurr the dash of valiance that runs through Jaskier. He slowly lets go of Geralt's belt, and instead, wraps both his arms around the witcher's waist. Geralt doesn't even look back at him, and it emboldens Jaskier. He lays his head on the man's back. It's not comfortable, not by any means. His silver and steel awkwardly angled, near enough to trim Jaskier's eyelash, should they be drawn. But what is the worst Geralt could do? Stop and make him get off? As the make it to the threshold?

In a suspiciously eager fashion, they're allowed in. Geralt demands direction to their healer, the rumble of his voice sort of soothing even through his plates. Then they're moving once more, and too soon, Geralt is peeling Jaskier's arms from his body. Telling him, "We're here," as if it's a good thing.

The healer's name is Ivora, if truth be told by the guards, and she hesitates to open her door. Not until she peeks out the slider does she swing it open and let them through. Even as she does, she does not look at Jaskier half as much as she looks at him.

"My bard, he's sick," Geralt tries to explain anyway, helping Jaskier limp through the doorway and depositing him in a nearby chair. "Been coughing for weeks. Blood."

Ivora leans over in front of Jaskier, who has both hands locked over his mouth.

"Open up," She orders, and Jaskier refuses. Shaking his head. Staring at her, and Ivora staring back like she's contemplating something. Standing back up, she turns that stare back on Geralt.

She must be skeptical of him. "I can pay." He assures her.

Ivora smirks a bit. "Keep your coin, hexer. I'm sure we can work out a trade." Wandering into her shop, she seems to start to prepare a bed and collect some items. Geralt takes a few steps closer, following her. "I'm a bit of an opportunist, and no, I'm not particularly sorry." She tells him. Pulling a bowl from a shelf, then sauntering back to Jaskier to shove it in his lap. "Go kill that swamp thing, and I'll fix your bard."

"The foglet." Of course, he'd end up knee deep in the shit, anyway. But it's for Jaskier...there is not a moment's hesitation to whether he'll take the contract or not.

The healer scoffs. "I don't care what it's called, it's ruining my supply chain. No one will come out here."

Geralt nods. He doesn't care for the details, not now. He'll do it and get back to Jask as soon as possible. "You'll treat him, while I'm gone? Another healer have him tarra-"

"I'll treat him when the thing is dead." Ivora levels at him. They glare at one another. She concedes first. "I'll make him comfortable 'til you return, but I'll need to see some proof. You do your work and then I'll do mine."

Jaskier dunks his head into the bowl, retching an echo into the metal. "Does he have that long? I can just pay you." Geralt offers, softer than he's ever negotiated on a foglet before.

Ivora considers Jaskier, pouting at Geralt condescendingly as she pats his bard's back. "It's a quicker fix than it seems."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the comments! They make my day.


	8. Chapter 8

Geralt is going to leave him. He's oiling his swords, sat across from Jaskier's bed. Telling him oxshit about how it's all going to be okay, when Jaskier knows that it absolutely will not. Geralt is going to _leave_ him, he's going to die alone and it will all be for nothing because Jaskier has no voice to warn him with.

The conniving witch of a healer is far too pleased with herself, brewing tea and blotting him with cool towels. As if to say, " _Look! I'm doing something about it_!" Jaskier tries to plead to Geralt with his eyes, to no avail.

The witcher hums and sheaths his swords, ready to leave. Jaskier groans sadly, reaching out like a small child.

He's afraid, now. All the acceptance from the morn and all the will from the ride in, gone. He doesn't want to be alone. He doesn't want Geralt to leave him.

To his surprise, Geralt takes his hand in both of his. "I'll be back before dark," he promises. And then, does something even more curious. He brings Jaskier's knuckles to his lips, and kisses them softly.

Then he's gone, leaving Jaskier to vomit into the metal bowl he'd been provided.

And since Geralt's gone, he doesn't bother to cover anything. Jaskier just lets the blood and mucus pour, wretching like a cat to get the long stems out. Lets himself cry while he does, ugly and unreserved.

When it's over, the healer tries to take the bowl. But he clings to it with shaky hands.

"Are they for the hexer?" She asks, peering into it. It doesn't feel right to let her see. He resists the urge to cover them. They're his, they're Geralt's, buttercups. They're all he has to speak of, figuratively, for this meager relationship.

Jaskier nods slightly, because she won't stop staring at him. She clucks her tongue at him. "That's sweet. Someone for everyone, I suppose." If he weren't so exhausted, he'd glare.

Eventually, she pries the bowl from him, replacing it with another. "Big prunings. Been sick a while?" She asks offhandedly, dumping the bowl somewhere behind him before she comes back. She forces his mouth open, cocking her head as she looks in. "Throat's almost closed. You might have another night, maybe two."

Jaskier snaps his mouth shut, shoulders nearly vibrating with cold. The healer - Ivora, she introduces herself as - tosses a blanket over him.

"Get the feeling he might just like you, too," She says. She buzzes around her shop. Sometimes he sees her, sometimes he can't. It's only getting harder to turn around. "See the way he just _went_?"

 _You don't know him,_ Jaskier wants to say. _He's just a good person._ It's not specifically for his sake. Geralt's too good to not get help for someone who has no one else, and too good to let a monster take away a whole town's recourses.

She comes into sight again, and pushes the rim of a hot cup up to his mouth. "It'll hurt, but it'll wilt the ones in your throat." Ivora says, and doesn't offer much in the way of choice. It's frustrating. Jaskier knows he should be stronger than this. But now he has to let his head tilt back, and can't even scream at the scald. The concoction burns his tongue, so much so that he doesn't taste it. "Why not just spill the beans? He's obviously sweet on you, too."

Jaskier can't answer, can't even shake his head. He's very busy, thank you, writhing in pain. It pins his back to the thin mattress, but it's impossible to lie still with it. He grabs fistfuls of blanket, pressing his head back, like he's trying to run from something already inside him. Somewhere in it all, though, his ripping groans bubble out to the actual sound of his voice.

It's only a sob, but it sounds like him. And then his gasps for air, they start to, as well. He stops moving, breathing hard and staring up at the wooden ceiling with tears streaked all over his face.

He should be thankful, right? He can't tell if he feels any better, yet, but his voice is back. Does that mean...they're gone? What did she _do?_ No one even asked if this is what he wanted!

"I don't-I don't wanna get rid of them," He hiccups and whimpers. Brings his hands that barley feel like his with how they tremor, to his face to cover his mouth. "Don't kill them," He pleads into his palms.

Ivora looks at him with furrowed brows and wide eyes. "I'm not," she says. Her tone is more careful, far less brash, than it has been since they arrived. "I don't know how." She admits, and pushes his hair back from his sweaty forehead. "So you will need to tell him."

_Why the fuck did I kiss Jaskier's hand_? Geralt thinks about it as he and Roach march right back out of the walls of Ellander.

 _What are we, a virginal maiden and a gentleman hoping to court her_? Still on his mind, while he leaves his mare up on the hill that had been his hope not a few hours ago.

 _This is ridiculous. I am being ridiculous._ His head nags, as he's readying himself to cast quen.

Geralt very nearly charges into the fog still thinking about Jaskier. He backs up, catching himself. Backs up more and sits down.

He doesn't want to waste time in meditation. Yet he can't afford internal conflict, here. Foglets thrive on confusion. And he _must_ return to Jaskier.

It's dusk, when he opens his eyes after trying to center himself. He'd promised to be back before dark. _Right before I kissed his damn hand._

"Fuck,"

The sky grows darker outside the healer's windows. It's not terribly common for a contract to take longer than Geralt had estimated, but it happens. It never ceases to make Jaskier nervous.

He's slept a bit, and taken another dose of boiling hot tea. He's even been coaxed into swallowing a few spoonfuls of broth. And yet he still shakes, now with nerves.

Jaskier's voice feels to raw and raspy to rehearse anything. He's not sure it would help. Who knows if he'll actually be able to say what needs to be said, when Geralt walks back through that door.

He's driving himself mad with the possibilities. Worst case scenario, he hates Jaskier. He leaves again and never comes back, and Jaskier dies alone except for a healer who doesn't even know what she's doing. Best case scenario, Geralt might begrudgingly sit at his side until he expires.

Middle of the road, and the option Jaskier is leaning toward, is using his newly returned voice to pretend that everything is just peachy! He's all fixed and they can be on their way. They'll leave Ellander, and Jaskier will keep pouring hot tea down his gullet. Eventually he'll just creep out of their next camp and die without bothering anyone. Or maybe they'll find a room at an inn, and Geralt will leave him for a hunt. He'll come back to the keepers telling him they found Jaskier's body, the undertaker has already been. No harm done, except Geralt may still have to pay for the room.

He sits up in the bed. Ivora left him to attend some home visit, on the scheduled changing of bandages for several ill-behaved men who had participated in a bar fight.

Her walls are lined with books, like a library. Not one he's ever been in, because all the nude renderings in her books are surely less titillating than the ones in the back room at Oxenfurt's bookshop. But he does recognize the spine of one.

Dark green, thin, with a small golden daisy inscribed on it. _The Language of Flowers._

Desperate for something to do, to take his mind off the waiting, Jaskier pulls himself out of bed and hobbles over to it. He tabs a finger to the top of it, and looks around. Ready to take an of-course-I'm-not-touching-anything pose, should, say, the door burst open.

It doesn't, though, and he pulls the book from it's place without consequence. Jaskier tucks it to his chest, making himself as comfortable as he can manage in the bed.

He flips through it, thumbing over the well-loved pages. Geralt had started to say that word again, before Ivora interrupted him. Terra, Terry-something. Perhaps the proper name for buttercups?

It's not there, though. Instead it says, beside the description of _childishness, humility, '_ ranunculus'. Which does not sound at all like what Geralt had said.

He'd seemed so confident, in his naming. And if witchers are the unsought authority on anything, it's plants. Jaskier has sat through many a gathering session.

Jaskier combs through the book, searching for something reminiscent.

There's tagates, that mean jealousy and grief. Tuberose, which stand for dangerous pleasures. Trillium, speaking to precision and grace.

And then, finally, there's tarragon. The name leaps off the page in Geralt's voice. The meaning makes Jaskier's heart skip. _Lasting interest_.

He hasn't the time to wonder about it before the apothecary door creaks open.


	9. Chapter 9

Geralt pushes open the door cautiously. It's too quiet.

All he can hear is the rapid beat of Jaskier's heart, and uneven breathing. The rhythm Geralt had come to expect, even be comforted by, has been all off this last week. He doesn't know what to do with the jarring reality of that fact.

He knows Jaskier's heartbeat from any other. It helps him find his bard, in crowds and in buildings with closed doors between them. But it also helps Geralt fall asleep. He can tune out anything by counting Jaskier's pulse. It's as bad and aching as the loosely dressed wound to his arm, listening to it now. Irregular despite how his bard appears to be asleep.

Ivora isn't even here. She's left Jaskier on the camp bed, curled up with his arms wrapped around himself.

" _You do your job, then I'll do mine,_ " Geralt growls at no one. Tosses the severed ear of the foglet out of his sight. It clatters across a tabletop, skidding on papers and knocking things to the floor.

Geralt sighs, defeatedly, slumping into the chair by the door.

They've come all this way, for Jaskier to still be in pain. He finally got his bard to a healer, but she's not helping him. Geralt slayed the foglet, and it hasn't gotten them anywhere. He's a failure, who can't even help his only friend.

A shit witcher, who can't focus enough to not get himself hurt. A shit friend, who snaps and consistently turns his frustration to the wrong place. He's told himself he was doing it on purpose, to scare Jaskier away. For the man's own good. But it's not intentional. Geralt doesn't want him scared off anymore.

He can no longer convince himself that he craves silence. Not when he calms himself to the beat of Jaskier's heart. All the groundwork he's laid, insisting that he _wants_ to be alone. It's all for naught, because the thought of never again seeing the mischief in those blue eyes, feeling Jaskier's fingers scrub through his hair, or hearing his dramatic scoffs and wild ideas...Somehow, that's more daunting than anything Geralt's ever faced. He can't picture being on the path, alone, anymore.

"I'm sorry," Geralt says into the darkening room. Only one lantern is lit, at a table beside Jaskier's bed. Ducking his head between his knees, because he can't look at where he's landed Jaskier anymore, he goes on. The gods may not even know where it comes from, but it comes. "I haven't protected you. I haven't paid attention. I can't," Fuck, is this what it always felt like, to be near tears? They won't be able to shed, but his head feels full, like it wants something out. "I can't afford attachments. I'm supposed to be alone." His throat is tight, his face itchy. Jaskier's been crying for nearly three days, straight. It must be awful. "Should let you go, and-and will, if you ever wish. But I don't want to. Won't ever want to."

The end of it fizzles like a burning wick, sparks gone out to the momentary quiet. It feels like he's said something he never knew he needed to. There are some strange, burgeoning feelings of relief, sprouting from his garden of guilt. Then, Jaskier begins to cough again.

Geralt rushes to him, after his goddamn _monologue,_ and everything Jaskier has ever known is a lie. His buttercups are a lie. His reservations are built up on lie.

He's wrenched out of the fake sleep he'd defensively taken to hack.

What is the witcher trying to say? He doesn't _want_ to let Jaskier go? As if he actually likes Jaskier's company. Yeah, right. What the fuck? Just...what the fuck. Here Jaskier was, in actual possession of a plausible plan, and Geralt stomps in with his passion and sweetness and using his fucking words for once. To do what? To make this harder? To force him into a decision he couldn't make if he wanted to?

His hands are big and warm, patting Jaskier's back. Not fair.

"Stop it!" Jaskier croaks. He gags out soggy, broken pieces of stems and leaves. He lets go of _The Language of Flowers_ with one hand to weakly swing at Geralt, blindly trying to push him away.

It might work, but more likely Geralt may simply be surprised to hear his voice again. Either way, he backs off. Just in time for Jaskier to draw himself up onto his knees and retch a bloody little _tarragon_ out onto the bed.

He doesn't want to look at Geralt, but he has to. And then wishes he didn't, because the white wolf is wide eyed, surely appalled. Finally having to confront what this was, seeing Jaskier's stupid flowers for himself.

Hot tears stream down his face, and he looks away. At the vibrant red puddle soaking into Ivora's linen sheets. "Just stop," he whispers, clamping his eyes shut. He can feel rivulets of blood dripping from his lips.

The silence begins to settle over them like a blanket.

Geralt doesn't let it fall, though. "It was roots the whole time?" He says, and it oddly sounds like a question. It nearly sounds like this is new information. "For who?" He asks, like a fool who hasn't known the answer since the rumors started.

Jaskier is vaguely aware, before he looks up, of the witcher's slow, calculated breathing. And when he does, of the curious sadness in Geralt's eyes.

But it's all pent up, tied tight. Lit aflame and ready to throw. All his confusion and fear and effort to seem okay all this time that he hasn't been.

"You!" He roars, agonizingly tearing it out of his lungs. His words taste metallic. "You, you fucking idiot! You think that I-I've just followed your sour arse around," Jaskier squeaks, losing steam but determined to go on, "since I was eighteen, for, for what? Fucking fun? For your sparkling reviews?"

Gruesomely, blood flies from his mouth. It lands all over, on the book, the floor, Geralt's face. Sobbing, Jaskier's admission comes up like a blurb of vomit. "I fucking love you. You are mean and unfair and dense as a fucking log! And I love you,"

He cries, and collapsing into the mattress. Hides his face in the lumpy pillow, and realizes what he's just said. "Please don't leave me," he sobs, in messy desperation.

Geralt sits in stunned silence, taking in what was just said. It all makes sense now, that it would be roots. The coughing, the blood, the way Jaskier could suddenly no longer jog after him. The secrecy, how it had gotten worse in such a short amount of time. Tarragon blooms in summer.

What he couldn't follow, though, was the idea that they were for _him._

He didn't even notice until Jaskier was near death. There was no world in which he deserved such a thing. He's neglectful, selfish, a monster who is _dense as a fucking log._ And yet, here they are.

Geralt reaches out timidly, and lays on hand on Jaskier as the man pleads to not be alone. Whines for Geralt to please just stay with him. He starts at the touch, but doesn't pull away.

Sliding his hand in circles, because it just seems like the thing to do, Geralt feels the way Jaskier's spine is starting to protrude. The shaking wheeze under his hand. Look at what he's done, to someone who is supposed to be precious to him.

"You deserve more than me," are the words Geralt finds.

Jaskier shakes his head violently. "No. I don't want anything that's not you." He whimpers.

"Jaskier," Geralt breathes, taking his bard by the arm and gently tries to pull him away from the pillow. Jaskier resists. "Jask," He attempts again, this time snaking his hand under his bard's shoulder. To touch his face again. He's a day more unshaven, cheek prickly. It doesn't feel unpleasant.

The strength of a sick man will only hold out for so long. Jaskier eventually relents, allowing Geralt to manipulate him into sitting up. He looks so tired. His hair is unbrushed, his face a red-eyed, wet mess. Still, Geralt takes Jaskier's head in his hands. And chastly brings their lips together.

Jaskier pulls away, disbelief on his face. "What are you doing?" He asks, but lets Geralt lean in again, to peck another kiss to his open mouth.

"I think," Geralt tries. He struggles with words, he struggles with confronting his own feelings. This, though, is for Jaskier. Who doesn't want better than him. Who, once he's made his mind up, cannot be told. So maybe...maybe Geralt can have this. Just until Jaskier gets tired of him. "I feel the same, for you,"


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for unexpected hiatus. Seasonal depression really do be like that sometimes.

On her way home from dressing stab wounds and applying ointment to grouchy old men, Ivora sees the hexer approach her business. He ties his horse to the post, carrying in his right hand a grisly bit of pale greenish flesh. She decides to slip into the local pub, and give the travellers privacy. He's done his job. Hopefully she's done hers, giving the barker his voice back.

She's been newly on the receiving end of grateful patients, since the herbalist she apprenticed under until recently had died. She's not the best they've ever had. Ideally, she'd have had more training before taking up his reins. But she's certainly more friendly than the old curmudgeon. So Ivora has been well-thought of. It's nice. People buy her ale. And they come warn her, three tankards in, when there's commotion at her stead.

Jaskier's mouth tasted like blood. His breath is scented with the licorice of the herb in his lungs. Not enough to deter Geralt from drawing closer, even as he drops his hand from his bard's face. Lets it trail down the man's shoulder, arm, to the other's own hand, which Geralt covers with his.

They breathe together, for a while. Jaskier already sounds...better. Not well, not normal, but better. His breaths are heavy, but they don't rattle quite as much. The room is still, though the silence is not as unsettling as it had been before.

"You're not coughing anymore," Geralt says, quietly.

Jaskier furrows his brow, mouth slack. Touches his chest with the hand Geralt isn't holding, and turns to him with a confused expression. "They're gone?" He wheezes.

No, they won't be. Just dead, now, detaching from Jaskier's insides and leaving behind deep grooves where they'd grown. He'll still have to get the rest of them out. "They're-" Geralt starts to tell him, but is cut off by Jaskier closing the space between them.

Led by the bard, this kiss is deeper, longer. He tentatively places his hands on Geralt, on his chest and then his neck.

"I'm sorry I called you dense as a log," Jaskier whispers, breathless, when they part. He smiles at Geralt, and the witcher is struck by how long it's been since he's seen that. There are bags under Jaskier's eyes, shiny tight trails of dry tears down his face, flecks of blood on his teeth and chin. And it's perfect. "I couldn't think of anything thicker."

Geralt's own face cracks into a grin, their foreheads touched together. "You _would_ make asking me to bed as dramatic as this."

Then there's laughing, together, between kisses and touching and before either is aware of it, Geralt has more or less pulled Jaskier into his lap, down beside the bed. He smells so _good,_ so familiar, and much like relief. Jaskier has never been afraid of him, the foolish man. Easily lets Geralt lay hands on him. Doesn't seem bothered by his sharp teeth. And if anything, seems pleased by his inhuman strength when he hauls them off the floor. Jaskier's heart beats fast, again. But not sickly and irregular, not like panic. It pounds with exhilaration.

Geralt is not sure where he'd intended to take this, settling with pushing his bard onto the first high surface nearby. It's the table he'd thrown the foglet ear at, earlier. Could be the healer's desk, positioned well in the window where shadows pass - for her people to see if she's in, presumably. For now, though, it's where they press together, Jaskier pulling away for air even as he rocks his body against Geralt's. His head rests on Geralt's shoulder, hands wandering the witcher's arms and chest. They both ignore the still-present rasps to Jaskier's ragged breath. _Touch_ is priority right now. All the touching they haven't done over the years they've been together-but-not coming to boil, into frantic and slightly unromantic groping.

Things fall over, rolling off and clattering to the ground. Geralt feels weak tugging at his belts, and takes in his own hands the lace of his bard's chemise as if to rip it.

He doesn't, though, because when he leans in to steal a kiss as he pulls it apart, Jaskier has gone pale. His mouth agape, eyes shut. He sucks in measured, careful breaths.

Geralt can smell the sour bile coming, and, eager not to be vomited on, pitches Jaskier over the side of the table.

Ivora stumbles in as tangled wet mats of stem pour onto her floor.

Her mildly surprised stare meets Geralt's.

"Cornelius told me there were a couple stray dogs fucking in my shop." She says, sweeping something away with her foot so that she may step in and close the door. She's a bit wobbly, tipsy, if he were to guess. "Bit early for it," she grimaces, motioning towards Jask. "Your boy will be doing that f'r couple of days."

Jaskier groans, sitting up. He decompresses, as if it's the most natural thing to do, against Geralt's chest. " _Days_?" He whimpers.

Ivora scoffs at him. "Nothing you haven't been doing for months now." She picks up the foglet's ear between two fingers, nose crinkling.

As if they have a rapport in place, Jaskier glares at her. "What would you know?" He mumbles, then startles when she tosses the ear onto the table by him. Yelping and clenching his hands on the straps of Geralt's armor.

"What I know," Ivora sighs, "is that you two idiots could have solved this yourselves, if ye weren't such idiots."

The healer disappears into her shop again, and Jaskier dives straight in to complaining about her. It's...it's been missed. Geralt doesn't register the words as much as he just hears the passion back in Jaskier's voice.

His voice, which is a bit different, but unmistakably Jaskier's. It's deeper, raspier. Yet still full of his expressions, if his dramatic indignance at Ivora's incompetence is anything to go by.

The woman returns, and presses a vial into Geralt's hand.

"I know there's a lodge two streets over." She says, and rolls her eyes at Jaskier. He sticks his tongue out at her. "Lest you don't mind if I watch." She taunts.

"Oh, this is terrible," Jaskier whines, sweating in the hot bath, in the hot room that yet Geralt makes even warmer. Using igni to boil buckets of water scattered around the floor. Steam will loosen Jaskier's throat and the oils Ivora gave him will help the roots detach quicker. Or so they're told.

Geralt grunts at him. "Better, now that you're talking," he says.

Jaskier quirks a brow. "Oh? I never thought I'd hear you say such a thing, dear witcher."

It's going to take a long time before he's back to normal, Geralt knows. The more he looks at the man, the more it becomes obvious. The more the knife of how long it took Geralt to notice twists.

Jaskier has never seemed so small, not even as the sprightly, soft faced boy he'd been when they met. He's always been confident and unabashed to a fault - there has to be something off in his head to hold such a thing to himself for so long. To put himself through so much pain, afraid he wouldn't be wanted.

This can't be healed just with good meals, by putting the bulk back on him. Not with long stretches of sleep that will bring the right colors back to Jaskier's face. Instead, the bard will need to be poked and prodded and comforted back into his own personality. Something Geralt's not confident in himself to be able to do well enough.

The little glimpses of Jask already coming through make the mission a bit less daunting, though.

Witchers are taught to make contracts. Enough proper jargon to negotiate a price that isn't a flat out insult. Geralt never got poetry courses at Kaer Morhen like Jaskier did at Oxenfurt. So words are not his strong suit. He says too much of things he doesn't mean, and too little of what he does. Especially to Jaskier. Geralt thinks it might be because he knows Jaskier won't ever hate him.

His bard deserves his effort, though. Deserves affection, and that, in the back of Geralt's mind where he stores those kinds of thoughts, he won't mind if the witcher's attempts aren't the most graceful. Jaskier sees things and people for what they're worth.

The quiet, settled unbeknownst to Geralt, is broken. "Where do you go in that head of yours, wolf?" Jaskier speaks.

"I like your voice." Geralt mumbles, not answering the question for fear he'll lose his brass. Busying his fidgety hands with moving a bucket that needed to go nowhere. "Missed it."

He doesn't look up, but can hear the water ripple around Jaskier when the man hooks himself on the edge of the bath. "Did you?" Jaskier asks lazily, tiredly.

Every inch of Geralt calls at him to flee. To not be seen like this. But instead, he nods.

"Come here," Jaskier beckons, and it's an order that's easier to listen to. So Geralt does, taking a seat at the wall of the bath. Still not looking up, but leaning into the touch when Jaskier combs his hair behind his ear. "It might not ever be the same, you know," The bard rasps. "I could sound like a sea hag for the rest of my life!"

Geralt can imagine the dramatic widening of his eyes, raising of brows. He can't help is fond smile.

"Suppose I'll have the tag along and find out."

Jaskier cranes over the bath, taking Geralt's head in his hands. And kisses his forehead. Geralt grasps his wrists, willing the caress to linger a moment more. He's good at lust, knows it, and that the same is true for Jaskier. This feels more intimate than even holding the man by the hips like he'd done earlier. It's rare territory, and they're long overdue it's acquaintance.

Jaskier coughs, though, and they fall back into their roles. One of them grabbing an empty bucket and the other ducking his head into it. "Uhg, how long have I got to stay here?" Jaskier's new voice whines and echos.

Geralt feels more welcome, now, though, to where he hasn't been before. And so he lays his hand on Jaskier's wet skin, rubbing circles with little hesitation.

In time, they fill the bucket to the brim with wet petals and stems, and their time in the bathhouse spends. Jaskier clumsily pulls on his damp clothes and lets Geralt help him hobble down the hall, fuzzy from the warmth.

The witcher attempts to tuck him into bed, plunking him onto the mattress and kneeling to undress him.

"I don't know if I can get hard," Jaskier jokes.

Geralt snorts, tugging Jaskier's trousers off. "Is that meant to be a challenge?" He asks, looking up through his dark lashes.

"It wasn't," Jaskier admits. He truly, and in the worst way, simply doesn't feel up to anything more taxing than a lie-down. Yet, the image of his witcher on his knees before him is rather stirring. "Do feel free to ask again later, though."

Geralt grins, nods, and peels off the doublet he'd have ripped off earlier. "I will,"

More out of habit than any active thought, he begins to separate himself from Jaskier once the man is covered by the blankets. "Where are you going?" Comes a voice from behind him.

And it strikes Geralt as the most natural thing to do, to turn back around and disrobe within Jaskier's sight. Taking his soft barbs about how it really wasn't a challenge, how they should have bathed Geralt, not him. Then, to climb into bed beside him.


End file.
